She drops the razor. It clatters to the floor, specs of blood flying from it to join the blood that is quickly dripping onto the white tile. She tilts her head back, the release she longs for taking over her body. She looks down to the thin slash on her wrist. She finds the steady flow of blood relaxing, yet terrifying, and she feels tears of pain prick her eyes, tears of pain that are laden with pleasure. This is her ultimate high. Better than tears, better than her music. Cutting. It's her addiction, and there is no chance of recovery.